


John's Book of Calm

by c_doves



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cutting, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I cannot write beginnings well, Self-Harm, Sherlock fixes things, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:42:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c_doves/pseuds/c_doves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sherlockbbc-fic fill for: Sherlock walks in on John holding a blade to his wrist.<br/>( http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/575.html?thread=836927#t836927 )</p>
            </blockquote>





	John's Book of Calm

**Author's Note:**

> Posted on my LJ a while back, but I'm reposting here because its easier to find/search for/etc.
> 
> Authors Note: So Sherlock has brought me back to fandom. Please let it be noted that I have not written fic for at least 6 years, probably longer. I'm not very good at it, didn't get this beta'd, didn't get this britpicked or anything really. It's probably also a really weird fic to jump back into writing with, but then I always did love a bit of h/c. And this is something I can write.

“…but the website recommended it! Jacob hasn’t had a wink of sleep and he can’t miss any more school.”

John held back a frustrated sigh, and ignored the slight shaking in his hand by placing it flat on his desk, flexing his fingers slightly. Mrs Miller was the fifth person today to question his prescription because of whatever internet search she’d done. Never mind that John was a qualified Doctor with years of experience. John smiled at her patiently, “What he needs is rest. If you can keep him inside for the weekend, his symptoms should ease off ready for Monday.”

“No Doctor, I don’t think you understand…” John tuned the rest of her argument out and added a note to the file recording Jacob’s cold, flexing his shaking fingers slightly as he did so. John wouldn't have paid it much attention, except that Sherlock has been eying him close than usual and John is slightly paranoid that Sherlock might find out about it. The thought that he might do it again tonight, no, needed it, raced across his brain. Yes, he’d need to pick up some more sterile wipes before he left but the days were starting to blend together and it’d been almost a week since last time. Resuming the notes, he pretended the lack of shaking in his hand was a good sign. 

John turned his attention back to Mrs Miller. At least her son was his final patient for the day. It had been fourteen days since Sherlock’s last case, and John wondered if he should call Lestrade to find some new cold cases in the meantime. Sherlock had five nicotine patches on when he’d arrived home yesterday and John didn’t want it to escalate any further. Sherlock has no fewer than 14 experiments filling the fridge, not to mention the ones on the table, the freezer, and the weird fungi growing in the microwave.

After the mother and her son had left, John thoughtlessly tidied the papers on his desk before heading out the door. His arm was itching and he was impatient to get home and…

He knew he shouldn’t, knew the risk of infection always existed even though he was so careful, knew it wasn’t rational even as he argued with himself why it was okay.

Before leaving, John signed out a new box of sterile wipes from Supplies, his hand as stead as ever. A quick stop at the store for milk meant he wouldn’t miss tea tonight, and John grabbed some biscuits too, knowing they were running low and not wanting to be without.

John quickly took the bag up to the room, dropping off the box of sterile wipes before returning to the kitchen with the groceries. Without any cases, Sherlock would quickly switch to analysing why he brought the box home, and that couldn’t lead anywhere good.

As he entered the kitchen the smell hit John instantly. Sherlock was stirring something pink and bubbly on the stove with a scent which hinted that the substance should’ve decomposed weeks ago, or maybe be sealed as toxic waste, John wasn’t sure. Sherlock turned to watch him, still stirring the goo.

“How many patches?” John asked him. Demanded really, but after yesterday, he felt justified. Sherlock raised his brow, but pulled his sleeve up to reveal only three patches. John gave a satisfied nod and started making them both tea, his hand still steady in anticipation. He noticed Sherlock watching his hand and he flinches, wanting to push his hands deep into his pockets. He ignores that thought though, smiles self-deprecatingly at Sherlock and shrugs. Sherlock might be a genius, but he thinks he has John all figured out and John is confident that Sherlock has already chalked it up to something at work, or his nightmare from the previous night or…

Certainly not that. John’s been very careful to leave no signs for Sherlock to discover. He’s careful and thorough. But he’s too calm and he doesn’t want to stay around when Sherlock is bored. He needs to get his tea, and get out of there. 

“I need an early shower, order us some Chinese?” John asks. He waits for Sherlock’s nod – he’d usually wait for Sherlock to reply and he’s not going to break his pattern now, even if he really doesn’t care - before heading up to his room with the tea. He thinks he can feel Sherlock’s gaze on him as he leaves, but then he’s always so paranoid when it comes to it. John takes a few gulps of his tea – burning his mouth slightly in the process, before setting it aside. He’s in too much of a rush for that.

John opens the box of sterile-wipes and grabs a handful, adding them to the first aid kit he made just for this, before wrapping the kit in his towel (a lie based on truth is more believable, he’s planning on showering first anyway) and heading for the bathroom.

John’s shower is much like the ones he took back in the army. Quick but thorough, he’s itching to get started. Special attention is paid to his right arm, from his palm up to his elbow, a bit overkill, but then there’s nothing wrong with that. He needs a clean canvas and he’s always so careful not to risk infection.

Once dry, John unzips the first aid kit. Puts some antiseptic on a cotton ball and wipes it over his right wrist and a few inches up his arm. He does this in nice, slow, even strokes. All his attention is on the task. He’s so calm now, already feeling better. He knows logically that the feeling rushing through him is his endorphins, the body’s natural production of opioid peptides and there’s many other (safer) ways to get a similar rush. But then nothing was ever so easy; so controlled and effective.

It’s a nice neat square, it always is. He breathes out gently as he stares at his wrist. So close to this and he takes out a sterile-wipe, rips its individual packaging open and takes it out. He takes out the surgical knife, deftly removes the blade’s cover. The next part takes a minute or so, sterilising the blade carefully, the longest part of the prep.

He’s done it plenty of times, though he only started back up recently. It didn’t feel right in the army – everyone fighting to live and even though its not about dying he always felt guilty even considering it, over there. John has a healthy appreciation for living and plans to keep it that way, this is just.

Stress relief? He doesn’t know, though he probably should. It doesn’t hurt anyone but himself, and he rationalises that it’s not much different than getting a tattoo, really. It's complicated and he's not depressed or anything exactly, people just wouldn’t understand, which is why he can’t let anybody know. Why this is his secret. The blade’s now sterile, as well as it can be without medical cleaning facilities. Prep time is about 3 minutes, start to finish. He’d like to take longer but living with Sherlock means being more careful.

He takes another breath in, then breathes out slowly, his left hand guiding the blade to rest on his right wrist at the same time. John draws it over the skin slowly. He promised himself he wouldn’t do too many tonight. Flecks of blood appear the length of the cut and quickly grow until it’s a single red line. He holds wrist carefully facing up so that it doesn’t drip. Less to clean up after. The cut is quite small, shallow enough that it probably won’t add to the myriad of scars up his arm, but the blood’s covering it and he can’t quite be sure.

The second line is slightly deeper, John’s torn between not wanting any more scars and being strangely fond of them, though he can’t put that any way that makes sense. The blood wells faster and he lines up the blade ready for the next incision when he hears the click of the door.

Sherlock opens the door faster than John has time to process. The giddy, slightly high feeling drops like a stone but not fast enough for John to hide the surgical knife. Or his arm, which turns slightly as John’s eyes meet Sherlock's. It’s enough to make the blood flow over the edge of his wrist and down. Sherlock breaks eye contact to watch the drop before his eyes move back up to meet Johns.

John doesn’t know why Sherlock hasn’t spoken already, but John can’t stand it any longer.

“I was just -” John starts, but cuts himself off, not sure how to finish that. Of course, Sherlock doesn't need him to.

“I can see what you were doing.” And even though Sherlock’s face looks blank, John can hear something off in his voice. Anger? John wishes he could disappear. He can rationalise his actions all he wants in his head but he knows how it sounds out loud, knows how pathetic he looks.

“It’s not how it looks!” John can't think, can't come up with anything better. He needs Sherlock to go. If he only had some time to compose himself, make some distance between Sherlock and this. He grabs some tissues as he drops the knife onto the counter, then drops to his knees to get the drops of blood off the floor, but now his bloody wrist is facing down and more drops fall on the tiles. The calm he felt earlier is now replaced by dread.

John can feel himself panicking. “”I’ll be out in a second, if you’ll just...” he can’t meet Sherlock’s eyes, and continues to dab desperately at the ground.

If only Sherlock would leave! John could have time to collect his thoughts and fix this up, and deal with Sherlock when he’s had time to think.

Instead of moving away, John sees Sherlock move closer, until he’s kneeling next to him.

“Show me.” Sherlock’s voice is firm and demanding, still emotionless. John doesn’t know what else to do, so holds out his wrist. His gaze lands on the two fresh lines of blood, a few dozen recent marks, and an absolute patchwork of old, white scars. He hasn't really stopped to look at how many he's got in a while, normally so carefully covered by his sleeves.

He can’t meet Sherlock’s eyes and can’t even look at his arm any more so his eyes skids away to the side. He knows he’s gone pale, but he’s hands are still not shaking at all and realising that, John suddenly feels even more exposed than he already is.

Sherlock takes John’s wrist in one hand, grabs the first aid kit off the bench and down to the flood with the other, and starts cleaning John’s cuts.

John darts a glance at Sherlock’s face, looking for anything to tell him what’s going on in his friend’s mind. Sherlock’s middle finger is sitting right over John’s pulse and he knows Sherlock can tell how fast his heart is hammering.

Sherlock finishes cleaning the cuts quickly, pokes around in the first aid kit quickly before pulling out John’s medical tape and covering the wounds.

Sherlock stands, guiding John up too, and breaks the silence.

“You should put your pyjamas on,” and Sherlock is speaking quietly now, his voice calm but still not quite right, and John hears the anger on Sherlock’s voice, but now he can hear the worry, too. He doesn’t know how he missed it, quiet and insistent. Sherlock's face is still carefully blank. “I’ll wait for you in the lounge room. I trust you won’t do anything between now and then.”

It’s not quite a question, John’s pretty sure Sherlock knows he’s not going to do anything right now, after he just got caught, but John rushes to shake his head anyway, the motion jerky.

It only really hits him then that his naked, but he can’t quite bring himself to feel embarrassed when all he can feel is shame. He wants to argue that its okay, it’s all fine. Wants to reason that people mark themselves with tattoos every day, this isn’t really that different!

But Sherlock hasn’t thrown any accusations and John can't defend himself against an attack that hasn't started. And if he's honest with himself he's pretty sure Sherlock has at least some idea that John's trying to rationalise it and this is Sherlock's way of not letting him.

The next second Sherlock is rising and swiftly makes his exit. John stays on the floor for a few more seconds trying to gather his thoughts before standing up. His legs feel like jelly, and he takes a few minutes to get dressed, not once looking at his taped up wrist. It’s only as he’s cleaning up his medical supplies that he notices the surgical knife is gone.

More surprisingly, John realises he's okay with that.

For the first time since Sherlock walked in on him him, John feels himself begin to calm down.


End file.
